On Pond Scum - Pee'ing Gasoline

It was a curious place to hold a news conference. I was on the piazza of a meticulously restored whitewashed planter's house somewhere south of Quitman in Brooks County, Georgia slapping at no-see-ums and sipping on iced lemonade with members of the local press. We had all been drawn there by an invitation of the owner, Jonas Walter Lee, to see the newest wrinkle in bio fuels for the South Georgia farmer.

As we sat in a circle in the white caned bottom rocking chairs rocking on painted pine planking we were facing Lee who was propped up on the porch railing lighting his pipe in preparation for his presentation. As the tobacco caught hold and the incense of cherry flavored Borkum Riff washed over us, Lee leaned forward and begun.

"By now yall've all heard of bio fuels. You've gotcher corn squeezin's mixed with gasoline, and your soybean oil diesel fuel, and your wood alcohol and all of that and none of its really worth a tinkers damn." he drew in on his pipe. "You got that damn fool up in Tifton tryin' to make cow farts in a bottle and them solar panels that cost a fortune and those fair weather wind mills."

The young lady right out of teacher's college next to me raised her hand and said, "but wind power is already proven to be economically feasible,"

Jonas Walter Lee narrowed his eyes and looked down at her. "Little lady, ifn wind mills was so hot, why in the world didn't the Dutch put the Saudis outta business already? And he leaned back, satisfied that he'd settled that outburst."

He eyed us like he was daring anyone else to break in with more learned nonsence. "For a while, I thought those Californeyea boys who were teachin' algae how to poop gasoline had been smokin' too much hemp, but then I saw them pour som'of that algae stuff (he didn't say stuff, but it started with an s) into a little Japanese car on the You Tube and drive off in it pretty as you please. And I said to myself, J. Walter, you can do that."

He jerked his thumb over to a farm pond in the front yard. "that pond over there is fulla algae, good old South Georgia Pond Scum. We've got hundreds of square miles of the stuff in every cypress swamp from here to the coast and, until now, it was worth less than nuthin'

The boy from the TV station raised his hand. "if Pond Scum excrete gasoline, then why didn't we find out by now?"

"Pond Scum don't ordinarily piss gasoline. You have to teach 'em. I taught 'em. Ya'll come over to the pilot test with me."

We all got up and followed J. Walter to the pond on the far side of the yard. It was full of pond scum and had skimmers around the side collecting the oily looking liquid that was floating on top of the water.

"Now here you have some Gasoline Pissin' Pond Scum," said J. Walter proudly as he waved his hand at the little pond. It took me some doin' to get 'em to do this but now, jus' look at 'em" He reached over behind the skimmers and dipped out a golden liquid and poured it into a Mason Jar. "and this," he said dramatically, " this is that damn Hugo Chavez's worst nightmare. ATSM Certified, 92 Octane gasoline."

Everyone broke into excited chatter and the TV guy asked J. Walter, "how did you manage to pull this off?"

J. Walter got a sly look on his face, "that's for me to know and someone with a very large check to find out."

"What about that sign over there?" said the TV reporter pointing to a sign propped up on the back of a tree that read, "Please Piss Gasoline".

J. Walter began sputtering, "pay no attention to that. Just an early experiment that didn't work out, that's all." Recovering quickly, J. Walter moved back into pitch mode. "This Pond Scum replicates like a house on fire. Put a quart jar of it in a pond and bam! they start having Scummy Sex like nobody's business. They'll fill a pond like this overnight. Every farm pond in South Georgia can start putting out hundreds of gallons of gas a day."

The young lady had recovered enough to boldly break in, "but what about Global Warming? If we keep burning gasoline the earth will continue to warm!"

J. Walter's swiveled on the young lady, "now look here little Missy. You don't look a thing like anyone who would believe in all that Global Warming hoo-doo."

"What do you mean I don't look like someone who believes in Global Warming?" she said.

"Well, for one thing, I can see from clear over here that you shave your legs and your armpits!" cackled J. Walter. At this, the young lady said something that you wouldn't think young ladies knew how to say and stomped away with her head held high.

" But look a hear J. Walter, " I said, "all kinds of people are going to ask that question. You can't go around insulting all the well shaved females on the planet."

J. Walter regarded me for a minute and then he said, "if you keep it quiet like, I'll answer that question."

We all leaned in, conspirator like, with every eye on him now.

"This here farm was bought by my daddy because it is exactly 100 feet above sea level," he said in a low voice, eyes darting around, "if we can get back to $2 gas, then, soon I'll be standing on a thousand acres of beach front property."

Note: for links to the real live science behind this satire, visit my shadow blog Inside the Nest